by Jirí Weil
It wasn’t until later, long after he and Jan had paddled down several rivers together, long after they had bounced around numerous freight cars carrying boats and people to faraway stations, long after they had camped on many deserted riverbanks, that he came to understand why Jan was called a traditionalist, and why his ideas were rejected by all the competition juries. Jan loved a city that followed an orderly plan, a city established as a seat of kings, a spreading city that contained palaces and hovels, grand merchants’ houses and blocks of tenements with fire escapes, a city surrounded by smoky suburbs filled with shantytowns, factory buildings and wastelands covered with briars and nettles. He championed this city; he wanted to keep the formless and monotonous machines for living from encroaching on it. Not that he rejected the new glass-and-concrete structures out of hand, but he wanted them to serve the city, not break in like intruders. He didn’t want the old palaces in its centre torn down, he didn’t want drab apartment houses and office buildings to disturb its rhythm, to dull the musical cries and sighs resounding from the heights of its hills to the depths of its slums.
In the name of the city he guarded every old house and fought against its destruction. He struggled to preserve the old arcaded palaces. Everyone laughed at him, because it was an era that said, ‘Tear down those old houses, get rid of all that junk, give people housing modules where they may gaze at painted ceilings rather than at paintings. Let them sit on cushions rather than chairs, let them fold up the couch and push it against the wall.’ He had nothing against housing modules measuring a little less than four square metres. But he was concerned with the gradual disfiguring and debasing of the city. Its silhouette, dating from the Middle Ages, was being ravished. Its gardens were being chopped up to make way for prefabricated houses.
Greta and Adela were hiding somewhere in this grey and humiliated city. As long as Jan was in the world they would not be abandoned. Jan would surely manage to find him. At the hospital they’d surely tell Jan where to find him. He must say farewell to him and thank him. But maybe they wouldn’t let Jan come to see him. Maybe he’d be shut away somewhere so that no one could get to him. Maybe they’d deny he was there, to avoid any unpleasantness, since he had only a few days left to live. But surely Jan would let nothing scare him off. He’d find his way to the Jewish hospital even if he had to put on a star to get there.
Suddenly the cart began to go faster. Both men quickly pushed it into a little passageway and hid themselves behind it. Something very strange must be happening in the street to frighten them so. Yes, death was parading by in the form of soldiers in foreign uniforms. At the head they carried horsetails. They were accompanied by fife and drum. They seemed to be setting forth on some marauding expedition, one that required an accompaniment of violent and clashing music. They seemed about to serve in some secret bloody rite known only to its participants. He had never seen such a parade. The people on the sidewalk tried to hide in doorways of houses and shops, to avoid saluting the flag with the death’s head. Only when the blaring music faded away in the distance did the two men wheel the cart out of the passageway. Only then did the sidewalks come to life again.
They considered Jan Krulis an eccentric, a man fixed in the past, because at architectural meetings he championed the city so fiercely. At first he had thought of Jan the same way, because everyone around was talking about bare walls, white tiles, hygienic fixtures, piped-in music and built-in kitchens. Only after he climbed a hill with Jan one day and looked down at the city through Jan’s eyes, only after he saw the city rising and falling away, embracing the river with its quays and bridges, flowing with the current and against it, unshakable and indestructible, only then did he understand why Jan loved it so much.
The cart stopped in the old-city section directly in front of a new building that stood beside a rather old synagogue in the Eastern style. They had reached their destination. This must be the hospital. Some people hurried out of the building and took hold of the stretcher. Just before they carried him inside, he caught sight of people wearing stars who were carrying heavy boxes into the synagogue. One of the boxes fell from a moving wagon and its contents crashed noisily to the ground: toys – teddy bears, dolls in dresses, rocking horses, little rubber animals, little wooden dogs and cats. They scattered on the pavement and the moving men scooped them up. Some of the toys were shabby from years of use by childish hands. That was the last thing he saw in the city: pathetic spoils torn from the hands of children.
They placed him on a clean bed. They put up a chart with his name. Again there was nothing for him to do but look at the ceiling. But this hospital was more pleasant than the other. Everything was glistening and new. They must have fixed it up out of former apartments, and the little room in which he lay quite alone must once have been a bathroom. A doctor with a star on a white coat came up to him and spoke to him in a kindly, warm voice. He was grateful for the friendly words. He realised that in this hospital he was a patient, not a scientific object of study fought over by the authorities. He knew that death would come to him more quietly and inconspicuously here, that it wouldn’t be surrounded by consultations and arguments.
No, the trip through the occupied city had not helped his condition, but still he had no regrets. He had seen Prague once again after two years. No matter that the city had been silenced and subjugated. In the end, nobody would ever conquer it. It would awaken one day to rejoicing and flags waving. He wouldn’t live to see that day, for the end was approaching. The Jewish hospital couldn’t keep him alive – they didn’t have the means to do it. But he would certainly die more comfortably among his own people. Breathing was difficult now, and he could barely speak. If only Jan would come before he lost the power of speech entirely. How would he communicate with him if he couldn’t speak and his hands were paralysed?
It was quiet there, high above the city. The neighbourhood they were strolling through had lost all signs of life. It should have been noisy, filled with sounds of singing and shouting as in old Parisian streets. People should have been sitting in outdoor cafes, sipping coffee or alcoholic beverages at the bar. But life seemed to have vanished, even though people must still live here, must still sit on balconies that were once arcades of palaces and look down on gardens hidden by house façades. They were under a spell. Life went on only behind thick impenetrable walls. Women did their laundry in metal tubs out in the courtyard, children ran around in the little gardens and picked fruit from the trees, men worked in little workshops. The streets and squares were silent and lifeless, as if plunged into an eternal sleep. Even the dogs that occasionally appeared on the streets walked around gravely and didn’t bark. They crept around the cornerstones as if the silence oppressed them.
As they came down again to the city’s main streets, the noise overwhelmed them. Trolleys clattered and jangled by them. Car brakes screeched. Heavy lorries rumbled past. A stream of people crowded the pavements, stopped at the crossings and overflowed into the street. Newsboys shouted out the latest news, assailing them with murders, mine disasters and scandalous lawsuits. Their ears were further assaulted by the cries of hawkers selling lottery tickets and noisy flower vendors. Strains of strident music came pouring out of an open shop door. Here the city seemed to be squealing and writhing, as if stabbed by the neon lights and letters that appeared in bright rows announcing the results of a soccer match. The end of the city seemed at hand. Perhaps it wanted to have its last say in the screeching and clattering, the flood of lights and the provocative music.
Overwhelmed by the din, they pulled away from the crowd and escaped to an unfamiliar cafe. As they walked into the large room, they were struck by something decidedly strange about the place, but they didn’t know what it was at first. It seemed to be an ordinary cafe with marble tables and mirrors. Only after a few moments did they realise that what struck them was the quiet, the preternatural quiet. Not the usual familiar quiet of regular cafes where people are reading and you can hear the rustling of papers and
muffled conversations. Though all the tables were occupied, not a single person uttered a sound.
When they sat down and ordered two cups of coffee, their voices rang out as if they had shouted in an empty room. They didn’t dare talk to each other after that and just drank their coffee in silence. Then they looked around the room. People were moving their fingers rapidly, communicating in this way across great distances, from one end of the cafe to the other. The waiter who was serving them also knew sign language and brought them everything they ordered. Suddenly they realised that the cafe was occupied by deaf-mutes and that they were the only people there who could speak, apart from the waiter, and even he didn’t speak. They were unable to enjoy themselves. They were afraid of making the smallest movement, afraid that the deaf-mutes might misinterpret it and take it as some sort of insult. They sat there silently, like uninvited guests, and only after they walked out into the street did they find their own voices again.
One day Jan appeared at the hospital and told him that he needn’t worry. Adela and Greta were doing well. They were in the hands of reliable people. They didn’t have ration cards, but he was managing to get food for them – it wasn’t that hard to arrange, because there were always good people to be found. Even in hiding the children found ways to amuse themselves. And they sent him greetings.
He thanked Jan. The disease prevented him from talking much, but there was no need for many words. Jan understood him.
And now the time of peace is beginning. Now all motion is about to end and things will stay fixed in their places. Now everything will turn to stone. The memories and images will fade and the river will cease to flow. Even its waves will turn to stone, even the sky will remain suspended above, its clouds frozen in place.
SEVEN
ROTTENFÜHRER Schulze II hurried Dr Rabinovich along the street. Schulze II was in a rage, and would have preferred to beat the Jew to a pulp and then finish him off with his service revolver as he lay there. That was the way he used to do things in Poland. But he had to bring him back alive, since Wancke had given him an order to do so. Still, all this had caused him considerable unpleasantness. The Chief Elder of the Community hadn’t been afraid of him at all and had spoken to him in a way that no other Jew had ever dared before. Yes, that one must have some powerful protection. Still, he should have slapped him in the face at the very least. Somehow he had forgotten to do it while the Jew was in his office, or else he had allowed himself to be muddled by the highest Jew’s self-confidence.
‘Los, los, schnell, schnell,’ shrieked Schulze II at Rabinovich hurrying ahead of him. The street emptied out. Everyone disappeared into building doorways. It was a strange spectacle, the uniformed SS man pursuing the cowering man with the red beard. Terrible things were happening everywhere, but everyone was astonished to see this happening to Dr Rabinovich, who had never been harmed before, who always behaved so high-handedly because he was aware of how important and irreplaceable he was. Why, distinguished visitors were sent all the way from Berlin to have him show them his museum and explain Jewish customs. The head of the Central Bureau himself called Rabinovich in to Stresovice for consultations. And now things had taken this turn – an SS man was taking him away, who knows where. Dr Rabinovich would surely come to a bad end, because once you fell into the hands of those people, you never escaped unharmed. You considered yourself lucky to get away with your life.
Dr Rabinovich was hurrying, trying to follow the SS man’s command, but he couldn’t walk as fast as the well-nourished Schulze II. Rabinovich’s body was twisted and misshapen from poring over books endlessly. His head, stuffed with knowledge, overpowered his body, which was just a bothersome appendage. Now he had to make it jump in accordance with the wishes of one of the murderers. There is a time to weep and a time to kill, as it says in the Bible. In the end, even he had become a victim. But more than Schulze II he blamed the Chief Elder: to deliver him defenceless to the mercies of his enemies and to call it an expert opinion! The Chief Elder had claimed that nothing would happen to him, but how can anyone know what those mad murderers might dream up, especially when one doesn’t even know what they actually want from one? Maybe they’d drag him off into the barracks and make him entertain the troops during their carousing. Maybe they’d force him to eat forbidden foods so they could laugh at his suffering. There was no suffering on earth they might not think of.
He had come to understand that there was no humiliation on earth that he wouldn’t endure. But now he knew that something much worse was awaiting him. He had come to understand that there was no sin on earth that he wouldn’t commit if he was forced to do so, even though he hadn’t had to eat forbidden foods yet. He knew that if they ordered him to do it he would submit, as he had submitted before when they forced him to perform impure acts and desecrations. Yes, they brought important visitors to see him, and perhaps there were some people who envied him for having patronage in such high places. Those people were probably convinced that performing services for such guests would guarantee his life and protect him from the transports. And he thought so himself, why else would he do it? Of course, he liked life – even his religion commanded him not to give it up. If he had been alone, if he hadn’t had a family, he would not have accepted life at such a price. What about all those martyrs who joyously accept a terrible death and allow themselves to be burned alive or pierced by arrows rather than give up the true faith? They could have saved their lives if they had agreed to be christened like many others did. But they wanted to hold on to the faith of their forefathers. Why didn’t he do likewise? Perhaps because he lived among people who hadn’t preserved any religious laws, who didn’t go to synagogue, who ate forbidden foods with great pleasure, and who tried not to differ in any way from the others. No, that was not the real reason. After all, he had lived in this country for a long time without losing his faith, without ever giving in to impure impulses, without ever touching forbidden foods or ever lighting a cigarette on a Saturday even though cigarettes were his only pleasure. No, he had never renounced the faith of his fathers. Even his sons had to follow his example. He made sure that they weren’t seduced by the bad example of those wavering members of their religion. Only now, in this time of dying, had he allowed himself to be persuaded to spit on everything he had held sacred all his life.
No it wasn’t because his flesh was weak or because he wanted to avoid suffering, but because he had chosen an earthly mission over a martyr’s crown. His mission in the world was his family. As long as he found safety for himself, his family was safe, too. Perhaps the others didn’t know what was waiting for them when they were called up for the transports and herded into the Radio Mart. But he suspected and even knew a little something. Because sometimes the head of the Central Bureau would loosen up a bit and he’d drop a hint, especially when he was in a good mood. Then he’d say, ‘Be glad I’m protecting you – otherwise you might go up the chimney in smoke.’ It sounded like a joke, and it was meant that way. Yet there was some truth behind it, though he didn’t want to think about it, though he denied it to himself. But fear forced him to believe it.
Rottenführer Schulze II finally got Dr Rabinovich into the barracks building and shoved him quickly up the steps to the second floor. There Wancke and his visitors were impatiently awaiting him. They were bored and had exhausted the various jokes they’d been whiling away the time telling each other, not political ones, of course, but dirty ones – that was allowed. Because they didn’t trust one another, they finally had to parrot news from command headquarters about success on the battlefield, about the perspicacity of the Leader and about the war which would certainly be won, just to keep the conversation going. That kind of conversation, however, only gives rise to a foul mood.
Rottenführer Schulze II clicked his heels and announced: ‘I’ve brought the learned Jew, as requested.’
Wancke exploded at him: ‘You certainly took your own good time about it, Schulze. What were you doing there so long with all those Je
ws?’
‘I smacked one of the Jews a few times.’
Wancke frowned. ‘That wasn’t what you were ordered to do. Just remember that if there are any consequences you’ll answer for it yourself. Out!’ he ordered. Schulze II clicked his heels and left.
Rabinovich stood in Wancke’s office and looked at the three men in uniform. The one who screamed at his subordinate was definitely from the barracks. But those two whose uniforms didn’t fit them well were probably from Municipal.
‘Come here,’ said Wancke. ‘So you’re the learned Jew. Go with those men and tell them everything they want to know. And remember, you’re not to breathe a word about this. You’d better not open your dirty mouth among your disgusting friends. This is a state secret and nobody is to hear about it. Take him away.’ He nodded to Krug and Schlesinger.
They were embarrassed to have to take a Jew with them. They didn’t know how they were supposed to address him. The Elite Guard was obviously more experienced in these matters. Krug decided to proceed as if he were communicating with a foreigner.
‘Go with us to German House of Art. Go up to roof, and find statue of Jew.’
Rabinovich knew that he had to walk in front of the others. They walked along rather slowly and Rabinovich was relieved that they weren’t rushing him the way Schulze II had done. These officials from Municipal didn’t seem so bad. He was happy that they hadn’t left him at the barracks, that the SS man had only threatened him and hadn’t forced him to do knee bends, as those killers were wont to do. But the task before him filled him with misgivings. What statue? What did he know about statues? ‘Thou shalt make no graven images.’ Statues could only bring bad luck. It was one of the worst sins, the sin of false idolatry. Today, he remembered, the shop was supposed to deliver the model of a Passover seder. The human figures gathered around the table were made of papiermâché, to look like real people. The head of the Central Bureau had dreamed up this project himself and insisted on ordering it from the shop personally. And now some other statue was persecuting him. Who was he supposed to identify on the roof of a building about which he knows nothing except it was once the Czech parliament, which the Germans had fixed up as a concert hall?